#spoils of fortune
Neurosurgeon!Namjoon x Spoiled Brat!Reader
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut
Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Angst, Fluff, Cold Heartedness, Emotional Trauma, Healing, Smut
A/N: This is a preview of Spoils of Fortune. The rest of the series can be found on Patreon.A chapter will be published every Wednesday! This series will not be coming to Tumblr, it’s a Patreon exclusive!
Neurosurgeon!Namjoon x Spoiled Brat!Reader
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut
Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Angst, Fluff, Cold Heartedness, Emotional Trauma, Healing, Smut
Chapter 1.
A/N: This is the first chapter of the newPatreonexclusive book! I already love these two characters more than most things in life~! It’s gonna be a rollercoaster!
It’s always the wee early hours of morning when people tend to see themselves the clearest. When the morning haze and the dewy air coat blades of grass and leaves on trees, people can see their souls in their purest forms.
Sometimes their souls are cacophonously loud, echoing out and over for millions of miles. And for some their souls sit quietly in a corner as if asking to be rescued like some grand princess trapped in a tower.
God, you wish your soul made any noise. You wish you could see yourself so clearly, but your whole being becomes entangled in the morning haze and the dewy drops that fall silently on the land. It’s a prison half of the time and the other half is just silence like mourning.
But as always, when the early hours of the morning pass, you pretend much like others that your soul never actually existed in the first place and you shroud yourself in the daily mask that gets you through life.
Although everyday is the same, you wish just something would change… anything.
When you wake up, the estate is silent. Your wing is silent.
Apart from your groaning, there is not a noise uttered. The maids and butlers are usually talkative, you can sometimes hear random spurts of gossip through your gold trimmed French doors but today there is nothing.
Which means he’s here.
He’shome.
How horrible.
Slipping out of bed, you can only pray that by the time you make your way from your wing of the estate to the kitchen, he’ll be already on his way to work.
Muttering nonsensical words to yourself, you grab your Gucci robe. Draping the fine fabric over yourself, it’s almost reminiscent of a warm hug you probably received once when you were very little. It gives you the gumption to leave your room, no matter how much you’re actually dreading it.
You haven’t seen this man who you have to unfortunately call your husband in almost two months! Why couldn’t you just stay on your vacation for the rest of your life?
With a sigh, you step out of your room, slowly sliding the door shut to make no noise. Your bare feet tip toe down the newly polished white flooring and you keep your arms crossed in the defensive stance that only takes place when he’s around.
Sometimes you appreciate how big the house you live in is. The time it takes for you to actually reach the sitting room is so long that usually your mind begins to wander pleasantly.
You can admire the beautiful pieces of art that you’ve put up around your wing and you can also take in the scent of finely cooked food that permeates the air with ease.
Especially after being away for so long… you missed this place. You missed Pierre and his wonderfully enthusiastic takes on the headline news, you’ve missed Blanche and her home cooking, you’ve even missed–
When you turn the corner of your wing, you see him. He’s sitting at the breakfast nook, in your seat, decked out in an expensive Italian suit. He hasn’t noticed you, he has his attention solely on the newspaper in front of him.
His black hair is combed back perfectly and his glasses perch sweetly on his nose as he lifts his coffee cup to his lips.
“Mm mm, no,” you hum to yourself, turning around to retreat back to your wing.
“Madam! Good morning! You look ravishing!” Pierre announces loudly, watching as you go to scurry back down the hallway.
You stop mid step, turning on your heel to brandish a wickedly frustrated smile in his direction.
“Morning,” you hiss through your teeth, flitting your gaze to your ‘husband’.
He simply looks away from his newspaper to take you into his sights before returning to the black and white sheets of text. He seems deeply unamused, sipping his coffee with about as much happiness as a wet paper bag.
“A latte to start off your day? We did miss your presence around the estate!” the older butler cries, rushing over to pull the seat across from your husband out for you.
“Sure, yeah,” you accept, pulling out the bar stool instead for you to sit on.
You look down at your nails, picking at the gel polish for something to do so you don’t stare aimlessly ahead of you at the mirror.
“How was France?! I do miss my old country sometimes! Did young masters Taehyung and Jeongguk enjoy their time?”
Pierre is always so good at making you feel at home, when you look up at him with a small smile and nod, you can see the Italian suited man looking at you through the mirror.
He clears his throat immediately, looking back at his breakfast plate with dead eyes.
You scowl at the reaction, folding your arms with a huff.
God, he’s always so fucking stoic and pissy. Jesus Christ.
“Let me go grab some more matcha from the storage. I’ll be right back,” your butler announces, wiping his hands on a pristine white towel.
“Wait!” you call quickly but he’s already off.
You press your lips into a thin line, looking down at the golden bar beneath your hands.
“Welcome home.”
When you look back through the mirror, your husband is standing and buttoning his suit jacket.
“Mhm,” you droll, pursing your lips.
“How much of my money did you spend while you were away?”
“I wish I spent more,” you hiss, turning the bar stool to look at him confidently.
“Of course you do,” your husband mumbles, finishing the last of his coffee.
You can’t believe you’re married to this man, you really can’t even fathom it.
As he steps towards you, his perfectly polished Italian shoes echoing with each step, you find your gaze weakening to the point that you simply look away. You stare out the open bay doors to the luscious gardens you’ve had designers make while you were away.
“I would say I’m pleased to see you… but we both know that would be bullshit. Now that you’re back… just stay out of the news, okay?”
You laugh sharply, rolling your eyes.
Your gaze snaps to his, blood boiling at his simple words. “Mind your fucking business, Namjoon. Don’t you have surgery to go perform?”
He looks down at his Rolex, smoothing out the side of his hair. “I always have a surgery to do.”
“Fuck off then,” you beam, pointing to the grandiose front doors.
“Incredible,” he chirps, taking off with the shake of his head.
You simply close your eyes, already feeling your temples throb with an unwanted ache. How the hell did you even get here?
“Stay out of my wing while I’m gone,” Namjoon calls to you, opening the front door.
You give no reply, only folding your arms as you stand. When the front door shuts, Pierre reappears with matcha in hand.
“We really are all so happy you’re home, madam. It has been a long while since we’ve enjoyed our work,” the butler coos, rounding the bar to hug you.
You welcome him with open arms and smile as he pats your back just like he always has throughout your life.
“Was it really that bad while I was gone?” you inquire, leaning against the bar with your elbow and tucking your fist beneath your chin.
“I don’t know how devils are allowed to get medical licenses, you should keep sharp objects away from beasts like him,” your butler hisses.
You can only smile then, shaking your head at how sad your life has become.
When the front door opens back up, you find yourself grimacing in its direction before seeing who it is.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Taehyung chirps, shrugging off his leather jacket with a sigh.
The man you’ve known since childhood stands before you in a floral Gucci shirt and brown corduroy pants that scream fashionable.
You stand up fully, closing the distance to meet him and he immediately plants a soft kiss on your lips.
“I saw him leave so that must mean that you’re all mine,” he murmurs in your ear, wrapping an arm around your waist.
You giggle gently then, allowing him to lift you off your feet without another word.
“Latte to your wing, I presume?” Pierre quips, winking at Taehyung who only beams a large smile in reply.
“Yes, please,” you squeal as he takes off with you in tow.
Hanging his suit jacket up in his office, Namjoon slowly rolls his head on his shoulders.
His life has been so peaceful without you in it for the past two months. He wishes France would just fucking keep you. He has too much work to do to be worried about how much disaster you’re causing.
“Bone dry cappuccino,” Yoongi announces, stepping into his office.
“Thanks,” Joon mumbles, grabbing the warm cup and staring past him through the glass windows as resident surgeons run around ragged.
“You seem really happy to be here today,” Yoongi deadpans, laying down on the clean bed beside his desk.
“She’s back from vacation,” your husband hisses, running his hands over his face.
“I think you meant to say, ‘my wife is back from the honeymoon she had to go on by herself because I decided to back myself up with surgeries those two months,’ right? That’s what you meant.”
Joon grimaces, shaking his head in disagreement. “She didn’t want me there. You know how she is… she’s… a bitch.”
Yoongi laughs loudly, covering his face with the pillow beneath him. “Joon, we’ve all known each other since the day we came out of the womb! She is not a bitch! She just fucking hates you because you’re a prick.”
“I’m a prick because I’m the chief of neurosurgery?” he asks with a laugh.
“You’re a prick because you’ve always been that way. It’s no secret to anyone. Maybe only to you,” his childhood friend quips, pulling the pillow off his face.
“Look, if she hated the idea of getting married so much, she should have just told her father that she refused,” Joon breathes, sipping his cappuccino.
“Oh my God,” Yoongi breathes, rolling his eyes, “You know it’s never that simple in our lives. Don’t act like you’re so high and mighty Joon. I’m sure she’s really lonely.”
“She has Tae and Guk,” Joon retorts, standing up.
As he grabs his scrubs, the office door swings open and he stands up just a little taller when he sees the intruder.
“Namjoon, good morning.”
“Good morning! I was just going to change into-”
“Did my daughter come home yet?” your father inquires.
“Yes! She got home last night!” Joon breathes.
“Oh… good. Did she… seem alright? Her mother is worried about her, Lord knows why, Y/N is an adult and is quite capable of using a phone if she wanted to.”
“She’s doing well. She saw me off to work this morning.”
Yoongi simply sighs, standing up off the bed.
“Did she have that horrible boy with her? That Taehyung?”
“N-No. She was in Paris and at home all by herself.”
Your husband did in fact see the pretty boy’s car coming down the street as he was leaving. But he fears that that fact might not be welcome right now.
“Good… Maybe she’s growing up after all. I too never went on my honeymoon, I was too busy with work. But that is the way of arranged marriages, isn’t it? You grow to respect your partner… I’m not sure about love but I certainly hope you will respect one another like Y/N’s mother and I,” your father drones on, only noticing Yoongi after his speech, “Dr. Min, don’t you have patients you should be attending to?”
“That I do! See you later Joon… Chief,” Yoongi announces, leaving the room with wide eyes and the shake of his head.
“Is Y/N… getting everything she wants?”
Joon chuckles then, nodding his head. “Oh, she always gets what she wants.”
“That I do know. Alright then, have a good surgery, Namjoon. It’s a great day to save lives.”
“Indeed it is, sir,” Joon replies, unbuttoning his shirt.
When he’s in his red scrubs, he steps out of his office only to see Jin and Yoongi waiting for him.
“And that is why you married her,” Yoongi announces, patting Joon on the back.
“What’re you talking about?” he mumbles, putting his glasses on.
“Oh, are we talking about the only reason why Joon married Y/N was because her father is the chief of surgery for the whole hospital and he’ll be next up if he put a ring on it?” Jin beams, folding his arms.
“Bingo, my friend,” Yoongi chuckles, high fiving the plastic surgeon.
“Oh my God,” your husband mumbles, rolling his eyes.
“Do you remember when we were in high school and Y/N swore that she would never, ever marry a surgeon or a doctor or anything that had to do with medicine? You really fucked her over,” Jin muses.
“Yeah, well… get over it. She has.”
“That’s why Tae is slipping her some pipe…”
“Yeah… fucking Guk too,” Joon hisses, opening up the OR doors.
“Guk too?!” the surgeons yell at the opening of the doors as Namjoon puts on his mask.
Joon simply shakes his head before he begins to sanitize himself for surgery.
“I missed you,” Taehyung coos, running his hands over your thighs.
He always gets like this after you both fuck. He’s way too happy and too content to do anything but dote on you.
Sighing softly, you stare out your windows as you comb your fingers through his long black hair.
“I wish we could go back to Paris and just stay there. I wish I could steal you away forever,” Tae mumbles, drifting the tips of his fingers over your smooth skin.
“No you don’t,” you laugh, rolling your head to look at him, “you would end up missing all the girls you fuck. Like Natalie and Amanda or Taylor or Callie or–”
“I stopped fucking them to just be with you… you idiot,” Tae chuckles, drifting his lips over your shoulder.
Your eyes flutter closed at his admission and you curse softly under your breath. “Why would you do something stupid like that?”
“Because I love you,” he breathes, grabbing the bottle of lotion off the side table, “and you love me.”
When he squeezes some of the lotion out onto his hands, you simply shake your head. “I’m married, Tae.”
“Yeah, but not by choice, baby. I know it’s alright,” he replies sweetly, coursing his hands over your thighs.
You smack his skin sharply, opening your eyes. “Do not touch me with the lotion down there. You know I don’t like feeling like a slicked up dolphin.”
“Sorry, princess. I forgot,” Tae apologizes, kissing your temple.
“Also don’t put all your eggs in one basket with me… you know it won’t work out,” you try to reason with him.
Now with the sun high in the sky, it shines through your window almost blindingly. Taehyung’s usual dark chocolate eyes are softer from the sun’s rays and you can see the gentle flecks of cinnamon within them.
“I can still dream about it… I’m not ready to face reality yet… I’m not ready to lose you,” he breathes, massaging your muscles as he goes.
“I’m not ready yet either,” you mumble, but you know you’re not talking about him.
You’re talking about yourself. Being married to Namjoon is going to make you lose your way. You’ve only been married for three months but for the past two you didn’t have to see him. The first month of marriage… it was fucking horrible. You’ve known Joon all your life, never intimately or friendly, but you still knew him and you expected him to have just an ounce of niceness to him. But he was not that way, you don’t suspect he ever will be.
When you push open the estate doors with Pierre by your side, you give a small smile at the grandiose architecture and how pretty it all is. You’re used to fine things, you get fine things everyday by the bucket load, but this is amazing! And it’s yours!
“Wow, madam, this is-”
“Welcome home, here are the rules,” Namjoon interrupts, brushing past both of you and taking off his suit jacket, “you, Y/N, will not ever step foot into my wing. Mind your business. This isn’t a museum, you can’t just inspect my living space whenever you feel like it. Your wing is to the right, make sure you keep your shit over there. As a surgeon, like many other surgeons, I have OCD. Keep this place clean. I know you’re a little princess and everyone does everything for you like a bunch of slaves but maybe you can be an adult and look after yourself too. Who knows, surprise me. I’m almost never home so we will not spend time together, we will not eat together, we will not bask in each other’s presence. If you are in a room, I will avoid you and it might be polite of you to do the same. This is an arrangement, it’s not love. You don’t have to get a job or a hobby, I will take care of you but just… stay out of my way. Also, when Guk or Taehyung want to come over, make sure I’m not fucking home. They’re rowdy and loud, and they will almost surely bother me. Especially after I’ve done ten to fifteen hour surgeries. So… that’s it, if I think of any more rules, I’ll email them to you. Have a good night.”
You open your mouth to speak but your new husband is already marching down the hallway to his wing and you’re stuck there in the entrance completely flabbergasted.
You can only guffaw to yourself at the audacity of him and you turn to Pierre with wide eyes.
“Is he fucking serious?!” you screech, stamping your foot on the pristine floor.
Pierre simply blinks, taking your Prada coat off of your shoulders with a shrug.
“I’m sorry, madam. Really I am.”
You simply fold your arms, mind swimming at how completely ru–
“What’re you thinking about, baby?” Taehyung mumbles, interrupting your thoughts.
Now you’re in a pissy mood just at the simple memory of it.
“Nothing… lick my pussy so I feel better,” you whine, bunching your fingers into his soft hair.
“Anything you want,” Tae coos, kissing down your body.
Peeling off his mask after seven hours of surgery, Namjoon rolls his shoulders with a sigh.
He doesn’t wanna go home… he doesn’t like that his space has been invaded.
It wasn’t his idea to get married but he accepted immediately when he talked to both his father and yours.
“I don’t wanna get married. I just became the Chief of Neurosurgery last year! Wh-”
“You will marry her and you won’t complain. Men with lives like ours… we need someone there even if it’s not as real as you would like it to be. Y/N’s father… he wants you to marry her. You! Do you know what that could do for your career? For your–”
When the office doors open with your father standing square in the middle, Joon feels as if all the blood in his brain slinks away. He stands there a mere shell of himself as your father enters.
He diligently shakes hands with Joon’s own parent before sitting down in one of the large armchairs. “You’ve been showing quite a lot of promise, Namjoon. I hear all about you all over the hospital. You have some of the steadiest hands I’ve ever seen.”
“Wow, that’s an amazing compliment. Thank you so much.”
“You can only go up from here, which is why I would like you to marry my daughter. She’s reckless and spoiled, she needs to learn how to be an adult and she needs to get the fuck away from that brat Kim Taehyung.”
“I don’t see why that’s on me to-”
“I will make you Chief of Surgery if you do this and become a better surgeon,” your father offers immediately.
Namjoon has known you for as long as he can remember. He hasn’t had long conversations with you or even tried to but his best friends Yoongi and Jin constantly go out on the town with you and your friends to blow off steam from the OR. Joon has never had any particular interest in you, per se. You’re hot, he knows that much, he isn’t blind but from the stories he hears… you’re trouble and rowdy, the complete opposite of what he needs in his life.
But to be Chief of Surgery… That’s all he’s ever wanted. That’s all he’s strived for since he wanted to be a doctor himself. Not even his father is as good of a surgeon as he is.
Is marrying you worth it? Is the stress you’re going to add to his life too high of a price?
“She isn’t for me. I mean… she’s wild compared to wh-”
“That’s why you should marry her. Tame her,” Joon’s father immediately counters, not even letting his son finish his thought.
Namjoon can tell his father wants this. He’s chomping at the fucking bit for it.
“What does Y/N think about it?” he asks, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.
“She doesn’t get a say. She’ll do as she’s told, no questions asked,” your father hisses, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair impatiently.
Joon cringes softly, looking up at the framed doctorate in his office. “She’s gonna fucking hate me.”
“She doesn’t even know you to hate you,” his father offers.
He doesn’t need to know you to know that once your freedom gets taken away there’s very little else he can do. Seeing you around before… you won’t handle this well.
Namjoon lays down on the bed beside his desk in his hospital office.
Maybe if he just takes a long nap then you’ll be asleep by the time he gets home.
Laying out by the large pool you’ve had installed out in the backyard, you bring your gin and tonic to your lips. The fire pit roars with life beside you, red hot embers trailing off with the wind towards the man at your side. With every heartbeat-like thump of the roaring fire it illuminates Guk’s features.
“Master Guk, here’s your drink, sir,” Pierre breathes, stepping up beside your best friend.
“Thanks Pierre, you’re the best,” Jeongguk hisses, taking off his leather jacket with a sigh.
When your butler of so many years enters back into the house, Guk lays back against the chaise lounge with a groan.
“My company is mad at me,” your best friend huffs out, bringing his whiskey sour to his lips.
“Why?” you inquire, not taking your eyes off the raging fire.
“Because I was in France with you and Tae for so long that I completely missed out on going to Seoul Fashion Week or New York Fashion Week,” he rolls his eyes, taking a sip.
“We went to Paris Fashion Week,” you offer, folding your arms.
“Yeah but I got too drunk and got pictures taken of me when I vomited on your couture dress,” Jeongguk hisses, staring at how the water of the pool drifts with each summer’s night breeze.
“You still owe me five thousand dollars,” you muse, finally looking over at him.
“I know, princess. I’ll send it to you when they take the investigation off my bank account.”
You raise an eyebrow, watching him shake his head dully. “And why are they doing that?”
“The bank doesn’t believe I could have possibly spent five hundred thousand in two months in Paris. Which is ridiculous because I’d spend more than that at dinner if they let me,” Guk breathes, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.
You can only giggle then, shaking your head at his antics.
It’s always been the three of you. It’s always been Taehyung, Jeongguk and you as this little group of rich brats that do anything and everything they want without thinking of consequences. And you honestly love that more than anything in this world. But after Tae’s words to you earlier. You can’t help but feel like at some point, everything is going to crumble.
“What’s that face? What happened?” Guk inquires, lifting his pierced brow.
“I just… ugh…” you begin only to stop yourself by pounding back your alcoholic drink.
Tucking your legs underneath you, you turn to your best friend.
“Here we go,” he mumbles, inhaling some smoke and dragging a tattooed finger over his forehead curiously.
“He said it,” you breathe, leaning in closer to whisper.
Guk leans in as well, just a few mere inches away from your face. “Who? Said what?”
“Tae. Earlier he told me he… he told me he loved me,” you whisper softly.
“Oh dude!” Guk whines, throwing his head back and exhaling the toxic smoke from his lungs, “We all promised! We made a fucking promise not to say that shit romantically!”
You simply nod, looking down at your newly bejeweled nails.
“Goddamn, he’s such a pussy! I cannot believe him!” your best friend booms, standing up with wide eyes.
You did, in fact, make this promise years ago. When you were first getting out of highschool, when you first started dating Tae, you knew that you couldn’t offer up your heart so easily. And it’s not because he wouldn’t accept it, it’s because with the lives you all live they’re never really yours to do anything with.
Taehyung, at some point, will have to get married to an heiress to keep his father’s business alive and Guk, at some point, will have to get married to another musician to not piss off his fanbase.
You don’t own your lives. You never have. And those three words hold a lot of weight to them that you can’t just throw at anyone.
You, of course, are not just anyone, which in actuality makes this so much fucking worse.
You can understand Guk’s anger, you can understand his annoyance. The youngest hates when people break promises because he’s been lied to all his damn life.
“And what the fuck did you say?!” he hisses, pointing at you with an accusatory finger.
“Nothing,” you reveal, staring off past him to the darkened wing that Namjoon resides in, “I’m married.”
“Good girl,” he mumbles, shaking his head.
“He stopped having sex with all his other girls too,” you muse, holding up your empty glass towards the house.
“Oh my God!” Guk yells, bunching his hands in his hair as his cigarette dangles from his lips.
“Madam?” Pierre calls from the French doors.
“Make me a pitcher!” you call back, waving your glass.
The butler simply nods, entering the estate once more and once he’s out of sight, Guk folds his arms.
He downs the rest of his drink without so much as a word or glance to you before he’s scoffing.
“Y'know, Taehyung has always fucking been this way. Just like when you were told you were getting married. The overreaction he had… I knew he was going to be like this! He can’t stand the fact that you’ve been taken away from him!”
“I’m literally married to the biggest asshole in the world who pretends that I simply don’t exist,” you mumble, turning back to look at the fire.
“Doesn’t matter to him! You know that, Y/N! Come on!” your best friend yells, tossing his cigarette into the metal bucket filled with sand beside his lounge chair.
You can’t disagree with him, so you simply nod.
While Jeongguk can be hot headed, he does usually have a point.
“I could have fucked you so many times over the years and I haven’t. Why? Because I’m not about to catch feelings for my best friend and destroy everything we’ve built together!”
“Are you blaming me?” you inquire, raising your eyebrows as the embers of red float ever higher.
Finally, he takes a deep breath. With a scoff, he throws himself back into his chair. “No. Never. I would never blame you, princess. You know that.”
“Good,” you murmur, closing your eyes.
“I’m blaming the dumb idiot that practically broke down the moment you said you were getting married,” Guk hisses.
Oh, how could you ever forget that…
With shaky legs, you enter the private room of the restaurant. You feel as if you’re a mere shell of yourself, you probably look it too. Not even the most heavy makeup could probably cover how pale and horrendously shocked you are. You feel like you’re dying.
“Hey, baby girl,” Tae chirps at the sight of you, standing up to pull the chair out for you.
You don’t reply, you don’t look at him. You can only plop yourself down in the chair he draws back. You feel as if you have lead cinder blocks attached to your feet and when you go to set down your purse your hands shake something fierce.
“What’s wrong?” Jeongguk immediately asks, taking you in over the steaming hot pot in the middle of the table.
You simply stare at the boiling liquid, lips parted to speak but sound refuses to leave your body.
You pour yourself a glass of soju, simply sipping the smooth liquor and squeezing your eyes shut.
All of the yelling and all of the screaming you just did, your throat feels raw.
“Is something the matter?” your boyfriend inquires, smoothing your hair back behind your ear.
“Obviously, she looks like she’s seen a fucking ghost,” your best friend hisses, pointing at you.
Your hand shakes as you bring the glass to your lips and both of the boys wait patiently for you to speak.
“Baby?” Tae sings softly, kissing your temple.
You simply pull away from him, opening your eyes once more.
“Don’t touch me,” is the first thing you mumble.
“W-What’d I do?” your boyfriend scoffs, blinking at you.
“You’ll never touch me again,” you sigh softly, voice breaking with raw emotion.
“What are you talking about, dude?” Jeongguk chirps, sliding his fist beneath his chin.
“Y/N, if something happened you can tell us. You know th-”
“I’m getting married,” you whisper softly, looking down into your glass.
There’s heavy silence that creeps along the restaurant walls for such a long time that you can’t help but think of your miserable future. You envision every single horrible thing that will happen from now until kingdom come before glass shattering rips you out of your own thoughts.
“What?!” Taehyung bellows, throwing his chair back.
“Bro,” Guk hisses, covering your face with his hand as Tae flings more breakable objects towards the walls with a fury.
You can only weakly glance at the man you’ve been spending your time with for years. His neck is fire red with anger, veins and muscles bulging with venom as he lobs objects that are close to him.
“Y/N,” Guk whispers softly, pulling your arm until you’re seated in his lap.
He hugs you with such warmth and intensity that it breaks you down. Sobbing hopelessly into his black hoodie, you cling to him desperately. His large tattooed hand drifts soothingly over your back, he whispers soft words in your ear as he rocks you back and forth like a child.
“Who the fuck is taking you away from me?!” Taehyung booms, pressing both his fists into the table to simply hold himself up.
You simply shake your head, burying your face deeper into Guk’s clothes.
“Answer me!” Tae screams at the top of his lungs.
You jump frightened and Jeongguk narrows his gaze sharply at the handsome man before him. “She’s upset! Watch your fucking mouth when you’re talking to her! It’s not her fault!”
“Just…” Tae hisses, taking a deep breath, “tell me who it is, Y/N.”
“Kim Namjoon,” you hiccup softly into Guk’s neck.
“Who?!” your boyfriend asks your best friend.
“Namjoon,” he mumbles, petting the back of your head sweetly.
“Oh fuck!” Taehyung cries out, sitting down in his chair with a heady thump.
With the memory of it all still running through your mind, you watch as Pierre pours you another drink from the newly made pitcher.
“Are you sad to be back?” Guk inquires, trying to change the subject.
“I’m sad that I live here. I’m sad that I have to be married to-”
“Good evening.”
Both you and your best friend turn to the intruding voice as Namjoon makes his way down the long path towards the pool.
“Hey Joon,” Guk acknowledges, turning away from him to widen his eyes.
“Can I speak to my wife for a moment?” your husband inquires softly.
You grab your drink, already irritated at the kind voice he’s putting on. You have too many things viciously vibrating in your brain for you to handle this as well.
Your best friend simply shrugs, looking away from the both of you to give you privacy.
Namjoon heads off before you towards the house without another word and you sluggishly follow behind him with a sigh.
As you enter the estate, you watch as Pierre flees the scene quickly almost as if he doesn’t want to witness you murdering your husband.
When Joon closes the door behind him, he turns to you sharply.
“Didn’t you get my email? I said I was on my way home,” he breathes tiredly, looking you over.
You can’t stop thinking about what Guk said, you can’t stop thinking of the memory you experienced in that hot pot restaurant. Everything you forgot about while you were having fun with your friends in France is coming back in waves.
“Hello? Y/N? Did you hear me?” Namjoon inquires impatiently, beginning to tap his Italian leather shoe to the pristine flooring.
His voice draws you in and you finally look up at him with curious eyes.
“What? Sorry,” you mumble, sipping your drink.
Your husband glances over you and he can tell your mind is elsewhere. Something about you has been shaken to its core and he tilts his head curiously. He’s never seen you like this. You’re usually so callous and brazen.
“I emailed you that I was coming home. I’m tired, please don’t make any noise so I can get some rest. I have a lot of surgeries tomorrow.”
You simply blink at him, too tired to fight after the emotional stress of earlier.
“Yeah… sure. Sorry… I’ll tell Gukkie to leave or whatever. Goodnight,” you mumble, heading back outside in a daze.
Joon narrows his eyes at your shaken behavior and he folds his arms at the sight.
“Is this an act?” he mutters to himself, watching as you step outside.
“Hey!” he calls to you, when you tilt your head to him, he simply sighs, “Are you… okay? Where’s the brat I married?”
You roll your eyes then, continuing to walk back towards your best friend. “I’m fine.”
Even with him being dead tired, he still watches you for a moment more. He watches how you tap Guk on the shoulder and how you half ass all your answers. Then he watches how your best friend nods and affectionately pets your head as he stands.
Before you were both married, he never said more than twenty words to you. He had heard you were superficial and bratty, you were snippy and selfish but as he watches you now… he doesn’t get that feeling about you.
Something about your eyes, about the way your mouth moves… It looks lonely. You look lonely. You even look fragile if he squints his eyes hard enough.
You hug Jeongguk tightly, burying your face into his chest and the surgeon simply blinks at the interaction.
Maybe you love Guk… maybe you care for him deeply on a level that Joon could never understand because love isn’t a word within his vocabulary.
Clearing his throat, he waves down Blanche. She simply smiles kindly at him, awaiting his order.
“Decaf coffee with whisky, please.”
He sits down in one of the large armchairs that dot this grandiose sitting room, pretending to look down at his phone as the both of you begin to walk toward the house.
“Later, Namjoon,” Jeongguk breathes casually, shrugging on his leather jacket.
You don’t even spare your husband a glance, your eyes are cast down picking at the jewels that now litter your nails.
Even just waltzing by the tall surgeon, he catches your scent strongly now. It’s a Chanel number, he knows that much to be certain, but he finds the scent pleasant enough.
He keeps an ear out for your conversation, rolling his eyes to himself at how completely ridiculous this is. Since when is he a nosy fuck? He should care less and in some way he doesn’t, but then why is he still sitting here?
“I want you to make sure you take care of yourself for the next few days,” he hears Guk softly whisper to you.
When you don’t reply, he simply assumes you’re nodding along with the handsome singer.
“Don’t you dare let him come over, you need to punish him for what he said,” Jeongguk hisses, opening the front door.
“Alright,” you mumble, your tone sounding submissive to a fault.
“Good, I’ll see you when I can,” your best friend offers, kissing the top of your head and leaving.
When you’re finally alone in the grandiose entranceway, you slowly turn to the surgeon you married who stares down at his tablet. You’re so mental and physically exhausted that you can’t even bring yourself to grimace.
All you can do right now is slowly trudge back out to the courtyard to grab your pitcher of alcohol and then head to bed.
As you pass by the surgeon who is now accepting a coffee from Blanche, you pay him no mind.
In a way, you’re punishing Taehyung for doing nothing wrong. It’s not wrong for him to love. It’s only wrong of him to love you.
You’re not in a position to accept such grandiose feelings. You’ll never be happy and you shouldn’t pretend you can be. That’s just your reality.
Namjoon watches you, he watches how you drag your feet over the steaming cup of black coffee.
He’s not a psychologist, by any means, he’s so far from that but he does know that your emotions aren’t normal at the moment. From what he’s seen of you so far, you’re usually kicking and screaming like a fierce brat.
You wrap your hand around the pitcher, closing your eyes for just one more moment to let the night chill course through your bones. Even with your eyes closed, the roaring fire pit lights up your eyelids with bright red hues every once and a while. It calms you further, it makes you think harder.
“Madam, would you like me to carry the pitcher to your wing?” Blanche inquires sweetly, cleaning up around you.
“No, thank you, Blanche. I appreciate it, though,” you mumble, taking off to a space of your own.
When you enter the estate once more, brushing past the surgeon without a word. You’re surprised when his large hard, clasps onto your arm. You’re stopped at once and even though your eyes are dead you try your hardest to give him a scowl.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks briskly, lifting his coffee cup to his lips.
“We don’t know each other well enough to let each other into one another’s lives, don’t you think?” you mumble softly, pulling away from him.
“Is what you’re going through somehow going to disturb me down the line?”
You can only give a half assed chuckle, shaking your head at how completely alike both him and your father sound.
“Great,” you muse somnolently, taking off towards your wing.
Even with the great big pitcher of gin and tonic that was supposed to lull you into a peaceful sleep, you get no respite throughout the night.
Your large comfy bed simply feels like it’s swallowing you whole.
Hours and hours tick on and on, you toss and turn, squeezing your eyes shut harder and harder to try and will yourself to sleep but that peace never comes.
Your mind is restless, your heart is restless and you can only think of horrible memories that eat away at your soul little by little.
With a huff, you sit up in your bed, hair flying every which way.
You haven’t divulged in your hobby in a long time but now with all these overwhelming emotions, you can’t help but get out of bed and put on your slippers.
Even at four in the morning, with the dark blue sky still painting the horizons outside of your window, you make your way to the kitchen.
Pierre taught you to bake when you were younger, it was an outlet for you to channel and focus your negative energy into and something sweet would blossom from it.
Since the estate is silent, you find yourself comfortably trudging down the halls without so much as a peep of noise.
The kitchen is in Namjoon’s wing but he’ll never know you were there.
As you enter the massive kitchen, you sigh at all of the things you can possibly make.
Maybe you could bake a cake or even a pie? Maybe you could do a plated dessert with precision that would take your mind off of anything.
“Poached apples in caramel sauce?” you muse silently to yourself, “With a shortbread biscuit base and vanilla ice cream?”
You begin the process, gathering your ingredients with a soldier-like mindset. And when you grab the chef’s knife out of the utensil drawer, the world kind of seems to slip away.
You’re a brat to most but in the kitchen, you find no such luxury. You appreciate that.
When you begin to cut the apples, when you make the poaching liquid, there’s no room for error. You aren’t this bratty spoiled thing that makes people recoil from you, you’re a machine. You’re textbook perfect.
But when you start to make the shortbread cookie crumble base, when you watch the stand mixer begin to hypnotically churn to produce the product, you begin to think again.
Even as you pile the shortbread crumb onto a sheet pan to put in the oven, you remember.
“Good morning, mommy! Good morning, daddy!” you chirp, kissing your mother’s cheek as you sit down to breakfast.
She gives you a small smile, one devoid of any true happiness to see you and your blood practically stops within your veins.
“Is everything okay?” you ask her, grabbing for an orange at the middle of the table.
She doesn’t even look at you, turning to look at your father instead who simply continues to read the morning newspaper.
“Y/N, when you feel ready to have an adult conversation this morning, let me know,” he breathes, turning the page of his paper.
You grab your glass of orange juice, looking between your parents curiously.
Your mother seems as if her favorite animal has died and your father is… well he’s the same as always.
“I’m always ready for an adult conversation,” you breathe, tilting your head.
The air of the room is somehow palpable and you’re confused as to why. Even Pierre is nowhere to be seen.
“Daddy? Did I do something wrong?” you inquire softly, sipping the bright, tangy liquid.
“No! You did nothing wrong, my love! Isn’t that right, dear?!” your mother assures you quickly, leaning over and putting her hand to your father’s arm.
He simply hums, setting down his newspaper. “You didn’t do anything wrong, per se. But you still have to grow up sometime, Y/N… I feel as if my hand is being forced with you, you’re making all the wrong decisions with your life.”
You simply blink, setting down your juice just in case you drop it. The sudden shift in tone, the way this conversation seems to be headed… this isn’t good.
Are they threatening to cut you off?
“What kind of decisions? I don’t underst-”
“You clearly wouldn’t begin to understand because you’re so comfortable with your life being the way it is. So your mother and I have decided to take the next step of your life for you…”
You can hear the blood pumping thickly within your ears now, you feel almost lightheaded in a way.
Where is the fucking oxygen in this room? Why is it so difficult to breathe?
“Wh- Daddy? What are you talkin-”
“You’re getting married, Y/N. It’s that simple.”
The silence bleeds for aeons until it all starts to click together. The scream that your memories emit, comes through to reality in waves.
You shriek loudly in pain, pulling your now burnt hand out of the oven with a gentle cry.
You weren’t even paying attention to what you were doing in your daze. You pushed the tray of shortbread too far in until your hand was meeting the hot grills below.
You don’t know how long you were burning your hand, all you know is the pain is so severe that you cry out loudly. Your fingers shake with pain and adrenaline and you cup your mouth to silence yourself.
Somehow during the painful fit, you found yourself on the floor and now with your back against the wall, you sob.
You rest the back of your hand on your knee as you draw your legs into yourself. Burying your face into your thighs, you cry.
You cry from the pain, this is true but you find yourself crying for other reasons as well. All the emotions of the day simply built up with no outlet and here it is right now.
You should get up and run it under cold water, you should do something but you’re simply stuck where you are.
“What the fuck is going on in here?!” Namjoon booms, shoving open the double doors.
With bleary eyes, he takes in the kitchen. All the ingredients are neatly piled up on the counters but the oven doors are open wide. He scans the room once more, noticing how you cower in the corner.
“Jesus Christ! What the f-” he quiets himself when he sees your hand and how it shakes from the pain.
“Oh my God!” he hisses, rushing over to you and kneeling down on one knee.
You don’t even have the energy to look up and when he delicately pulls your wrist off your knee, you cry out softly.
“Okay,” he whispers softly, standing up and turning the faucet on, “Don’t move, alright?”
When you don’t reply, only continuing to weep, he rushes back to his room to grab his glasses and his watch.
“What the fuck was she doing to be so careless?!” he hisses to himself, fumbling over the pieces of furniture to get back to you quickly.
“Sir?!” Pierre croaks, peeking his head out of your room.
“Bring me gauze, a chair, antiseptic and pain meds,” the surgeon rattles off quickly, slipping a shirt over his naked torso.
“Is it Madam, Sir?! Is Y/N okay?!”
“Now!” Joon booms, shoving open the kitchen doors.
You haven’t moved a muscle, still crying and shivering completely.
“Y/N? Hey,” Joon whispers softly, turning on the sink beside the one already running. He sterlizes his hands completely, tilting his head to look back at your frail stance.
When he’s finally done, he crouches down beside you.
“Y/N? I need you to speak to me,” your husband speaks calmly, tapping the underside of your chin gently.
When you lift your head, he can see how bloodshot and stressed your eyes are and his heart thuds sickly within his chest.
“I’m gonna lift you up and we’re gonna run your hand under cold water for a few minutes. Alright?” he asks, searching your eyes for any sense of understanding.
You simply sniffle, nodding minutely and he breathes just the slightest sigh of relief. “Alright. Good girl, come on.”
He verbally counts to you, putting his hands beneath your arms and lifting you slowly.
When Pierre enters flustered, Joon curses softly at how frightened you jump within his grasp. The butler isn’t a professional, he wouldn’t understand how to deal with the situation.
“Madam?!” the butler gasps.
“Set it down and get out,” Joon orders strictly, putting your hand in the cold water.
You whine loudly at the feeling, letting your head lean forward to press your forehead against the cool metal of the basin.
The butler makes no move to exit and the surgeon tilts his head.
“Keep your hand under the water, I’ll be right back,” he promises, letting you go for a moment to see if you can stand yourself upright.
When you do, he walks briskly over to the supplies Pierre has brought.
“I said get out, I won’t repeat myself. I have a handle on this,” the surgeon hisses softly to the older man.
“But she’s-”
“She’smywife. I can handle this. I’m trained to do this,” Joon says, walking back to you without another word.
Sliding the folding chair behind you, your husband presses a gentle hand to your back.
“Can you sit down for me? Is that okay?”
With a small shrug, you do as told. Cringing at the singular heartbeat your hand now carries.
Namjoon crouches before you, staring deeply into your eyes.
“What?” you mumble, clearing your throat uncomfortably.
“I’m just doing my job,” he replies, watching your dilated pupils become smaller. Wrapping his hand around your other wrist, he looks down at his watch.
“Why’re you taking my pulse?” you croak, brushing your tear stained cheeks against your shoulders.
“Because you were experiencing a little bit of shock earlier and I’m making sure it’s not getting worse,” the surgeon whispers, looking back up into your eyes.
“I’m sure it is,” you sigh softly.
“Why do you say that?” he inquires, pulling your burnt hand away from the cold water.
“Because you’re being nice to me,” you mumble, looking over at the open oven.
Joon simply shakes his head. If you have enough energy to joke around you’re going to be just fine.
“What were you doing? You got a pretty nasty burn,” he inquires, following your gaze.
“Is it third degree?” you ask, looking back at him.
Your stomach is weak to a fault. You know that if you look at it… you’ll become an even sicker mess. You can remember how disappointed your father was once he realized you’d never make it as a surgeon like him.
“No, not third degree. It’s pretty nasty though.”
“I was… baking. I like baking,” you whisper, looking down at your slippers.
“You clearly weren’t paying very much attention,” he mumbles, starting to wrap your hand in gauze.
When his gaze meets yours once more, he can see the pain of not only the burn but of earlier etched across your features. He can see it in the way your eyebrows knit and he can see it in how your shoulders slump forward.
The rumors he heard about you don’t seem to define you.
“I can be nice,” he breathes, shushing you softly when you whimper as the gauze wraps tighter around your hand.
“What?” you whine through gritted teeth.
“Earlier, you said you were surprised I was being nice to you. I can be nice,” Namjoon clarifies, finishing up his wrap.
“You left me at the altar to go do a surgery not even three minutes after we got married,” you announce, leaning back in your chair.
“Yeah, I did and the four month old baby got to live,” he replies, standing up to grab the pain medicine the butler brought in just minutes ago.
“You are just like my father,” you mumble, standing up slowly.
“He’s a good man,” your husband states, handing you two pills.
You snort softly, putting the pills in your mouth and angling your face to drink straight from the faucet of cool water that’s still running.
“To others and not to his family. You wouldn’t know how he is. Just know that you’re very much like him. I’m sorry I caused you trouble. Pierre will clean everything up,” you state, sniffing and clearing your throat to right yourself.
“I know he will. I don’t care about that. Do you need help getting back to your room or to-”
“No… No, thank you. Sorry I entered your wing without permission,” you breathe softly, heading towards the kitchen doors.
“I’m still going to check your hand tomorrow and change the dressing,” Joon announces, turning off the water.
You don’t reply, shouldering the door open with a sigh. Even when you try to clear your mind of the horrors that live within them… nothing helps. You’re so deep in the shit that it’s gonna haunt you forever.
The surgeon feels as if he can finally breathe again and as he tucks his hands behind his back, he looks over the kitchen once more.
Once the butler finally enters and he hears your bedroom door close in the distance, he nods to himself.
“Does she bake often?” he asks your butler, heading towards the doors.
“Only when she’s upset, Sir,” Pierre replies briskly, turning off the oven.
“I see,” he muses, heading back to his room.
Once he’s alone in the space he deems the most relaxing, he throws himself down on his bed. His arm finds its way over his hair and he leans back against the headrest with a groan.
“To others and not his family. You wouldn’t know how he is.”
It echoes through Joon’s mind at a haunting speed, the hollowness to your voice, the way it was so devoid of emotion… It makes him shiver.
Leaning over to his bedside table, he pulls open the drawer. The leather box he’s looking for practically screams for his attention and he shakes his head softly.
Grabbing it, he pops it open only to be greeted with his wedding band that’s only been worn for all of five minutes.
Pulling it out of the velvet slit, he takes off his glasses.
This small little band of silver and diamonds feels like five thousand pounds within the palm of his hand.
The way his heart thumped at the sight of you, the way he immediately became nervous at the sight of your pain… that’s just unprecedented. That just never happens. Especially to him.
He can’t let these feelings get to him, he can’t afford it.
“Fuck it,” he hisses, putting the ring back in the holder and tossing the now closed box back into the drawer.
“Joon, we’ve all known each other since the day we came out of the womb! She is not a bitch! She just fucking hates you because you’re a prick.”
He doesn’t know what love is and he couldn’t possibly offer it to you even if he did.
But somehow as the surgeon falls back to sleep, he can only see the look of pain in your eyes that made his heart thump wildly in his chest and he only dreams of a woman baking to quell her sadness.
